The White Knight
by Eden Lies
Summary: You can't stand to see Spencer hurt, but the reason why that is so is much less noble than the others on your team may think. Gideon/Reid, somewhat dark. Oneshot. Edited: 8/4/13, new content.


Hey guys! So even though I'm supposed to be desperately writing an essay for class right now, I decided that it would be a fabulous idea to publish this. This piece is still rough around the edges and I'm going to come back for an edit of this as soon as I can, but for now, enjoy what you get! My first crack at Gideon/Reid, and despite my devotion to nice!Gideon and my dislike for all of the creeper!Gideon fics out there, the Gideon here is a little messed up.

Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds!

Pairing: Gideon/Reid

Warnings: bucketloads of angst for both Gideon and Reid, violence, mentions of drug use and attempted suicide, dreams and hallucinations in which sexytimes occur (and now, some real sexytimes as well!), and more!

Okay, and here I go!

* * *

**The White Knight**

* * *

_By Eden Lies  
_

* * *

_"I walk slowly into myself, through a forest of empty suits of armor."_

_~Thomas Transtromer_

* * *

You can't stand to see Spencer hurt, but the reason why that is so is much less noble than the others on your team may think.

It isn't because you want to protect his innocence- definitely not, because you know much better than to think that he needs or wants your protection in the first place. He may be physically frail and socially awkward, but when it comes down to it, he is stubborn and strong of will, and to you that is all that matters. He isn't a princess and he doesn't need a white knight in shining armor to rescue him from the evils of the world.

He certainly doesn't need a white knight as tainted and as broken as you are. You have red in your ledger, after all. The lives of six of your men, gone in a single blast, all while you were too busy playing the hero.

No, you can't stand to see Spencer hurt, but it isn't because you think he'll just add on to your blood-covered ledger. Spencer has forever defied statistics and expectations in that department, as you very well know. Despite the plentiful amount of jokes by the other team members regarding his ineptitude in the field, _he _was the one who survived through two days of drugging and torture and still, somehow, managed to find a way out.

_And besides_, an insidious voice inside your mind tells you, _if anything ever did happen to him, his name wouldn't be added to your ledger at all- it would be painfully carved, inch by inch, onto the surface of your beating heart_.

You shut that voice in deep inside of yourself. Not a sound. Not a peep.

Your heart keeps on beating.

* * *

There is a quiet knock on your heavy cabin door that is almost undetectable in the pit-pattering of the rain. A few seconds later comes the desperate press, _once_, _twice_, of the doorbell. You get up from your chair swiftly as the knocking continues, staccato and light, as if in a hurry. Already on alert, you look around for your badge, your gun, and your phone, quickly shuffle the rest of the way to the door. This can only mean one thing- either Hotch or J.J. has come all the way out here to call you back for another case, another nightmare. You suppose that it's silly to think that you'd be able to get even a bit of peace, every once in awhile.

You crack the door open and your heart drops down into your stomach.

Spencer is at your door, sopping wet, button-down made almost translucent by the rain. If you look closely, you can see angry bruises and marks by the crook of his elbow, or even the dark circles of his nipples. You drag your gaze away, up his pretty swallowing neck and to his face, and _oh_. He is sporting a brilliant cut on the left side of his lip. It is still ruby-red and swollen, and part of you wants to _reach out and touch it with your fingertips-_

"_Gideon_," Reid says, voice wavering as he shivers and clenches his hands, digs his fingernails into his own skin, _"please, I need- I want-" _

His voice dies away but the rest of his sentence still strikes you like a gunshot.

_I want you to hurt me_.

And part of you, that insidious voice that you always lock away, is _overjoyed_. That part of you wants you to help him bruise, to help him bleed, so long as it means he won't wear those sad eyes anymore. He reaches for you, and God knows you shouldn't, but you take a step outside, hands extending to touch his outstretched form, to trace the wound on his lip with your hands or your tongue-

And then a sudden crack of thunder in the distance brings you back to your senses.

A hallucination. A fantasy. A dream.

Nothing else.

You are alone by your door, choking on the heady scent of the musky woods and remembering, in vain, the scent of the beautiful and broken ghost created by craven recesses of your own mind.

The rain continues to fall.

* * *

You can't stand seeing Spencer hurt because you know that part of him _craves _that hurting, that wound, that injury. He has an inherent sense of self-destructiveness, Spencer does- a willingness to tear himself apart bit by bit, little by little, in a way that would be almost poetically beautiful if he weren't a flesh-and-blood human. Part of the reason why he is that way is because he wants to forget Hankel, his mother, everything; he's even told you as much.

But you know that it is more than just that. Even before Hankel and the Dilaudid, before there was any need for him to forget, this self-destructiveness had already existed within him.

You remember the time he recklessly volunteered to put himself on a train with a madman. You remember seeing Spencer fluidly remove his own safety vest through the grainy camera pixels in the operation booth. His hands had been sturdy, purposeful, as if he were aiming for something.

You remember his personal worry and investment the time he came to your office to ask about Nathan Harris. You remember his hands, stiff and rammed into his pockets, nervous for the verdict in a way that he shouldn't have been. You can still recall his tear-stained face and the warmth of his nape beneath your palm in the aftermath of the suicide attempt, and part of you knows that he was crying because he saw himself in that boy.

You wonder, if the roles had been reversed, if Spencer would have even left a business card on the cheap hotel bureau.

You wonder if, in his last dying moments, he would have thought of you.

* * *

You wonder, sometimes, what prompted Spencer to be the way he is. At first you think most of it has to do with his mother and with the guilt he still carries for institutionalizing her, but another possibility strikes you one day in the conference room.

Reid, excited by the thought of the historical implications regarding the latest string of murders, is talking a mile a minute. Everything from his gesturing hands to the sparkle in his eyes brings you back to the day you first met him in a classroom, all of those years ago. Unwilling to interrupt him, you look on in fondness as he begins to describe some of the possible origins of the racial tensions in Los Angeles.

The others, however, don't share your fondness.

"Stop talking, Reid," Hotch cuts in, "we need to move on with the case."

Morgan laughs, albeit playfully, but it is enough.

Cheeks burning, Reid hangs his head in shame, almost as if loathing own brilliance. You want to reach out and comfort him, tell him that he doesn't need to be _ordinary _to be loved.

But you don't.

_Spencer is stronger than he looks_, you think to yourself.

He doesn't need someone tainted like you.

* * *

After Frank, the nightmares start coming back to you. Most nights they involve Sarah's bloody corpse or the warehouse bombing from a lifetime ago.

But not tonight.

Tonight you dream of the Dowd case, of what it would have been like to be in Aaron's shoes. To kick and to break that beautiful body with his implicit _permission_, all while Dowd and the hostages looked on. In your dream, Spencer likes it. His spine arches just a little bit as you grip his side, your muscles tight and drawn, and land a solid slap to his face. You let go, then, already missing the hard lines of his hips, and kick him in the stomach. He crumples down to the ground, back half-propped up by the wall just behind him. Spencer closes his eyes.

The lights flicker on and off in the ICU.

He smiles. Breathes.

You think about shoving a knee between his legs and pressing him back, grinding, until he knocks his head so hard against the wall that he sees stars in his vision.

* * *

You wake up with your cock hard and heavy between your legs.

You want to vomit.

* * *

You screw up again big time on that college campus, even though you should have known better. You shouldn't have depended on Tubbs leading the way to Anna, the copycat. You knew it was a breach of protocol, but you did it anyway. Just a little questioning here and there could have tipped you off of the copycat's identity, no bloody end necessary.

In your mind's eye, you can see Frank smiling at you in that smug and sardonic way of his.

His ghost knows as well as you do that you messed up on purpose.

You're trying to look for a way out, because you know you won't last much longer. Between your old team, Sarah, and the strung-out face Spencer wears now almost all of the time, you feel trapped.

You feel Spencer's eyes on you during the plane ride home, searching.

* * *

Even though you know that you're slipping, he's slipping, and that you can't make yourself stay for very much longer, you invite Reid to play a game of chess with you in your office late one afternoon. Everyone else has packed up and left, excited to head out for an early weekend of fun or relaxation.

You can hardly look at him, because when you do, you feel your fantasies lay themselves over like veils across the flickering reality of his face. You think that in reality he must look searching, questioning, thoughtful, but all you can see is a cut lip, smoldering eyes, and a bared neck.

But you will allow yourself this game. One last time. One last hurrah.

And then you- and then you can-

go.

You hear a little tap on your office door and you see Reid poking his head in, chessboard in hand. You raise your hand in greeting, eyes not meeting his, and you tell him to come on in.

He does. Sets up the chessboard. He gives you white, and you don't protest, despite the fact that you being associated with anything white and pure seems almost ironic to you at this point.

Spencer clears his throat a bit, scratches the side of his nose.

He's nervous.

"Ah, your move," he says, as if you didn't know that already.

"I know," you say, "I know."

You study the board carefully for a moment, pick up a pawn, and then begin twirling the pawn around in your hands. After another moment of consideration, you move the pawn forward.

You look up at Reid expectantly, hoping to see the face he makes when he's concentrating on chess (_so you can record it in your memory forever_), and are instead startled to find that his gaze is not on the chessboard, but rather on you.

"Gideon," he says, "w-what's going on? I've been observing, watching- like you tell me to all the time- and I can't figure it out. I- won't you tell me what's wrong?"

You are almost disarmed by the sincerity of his plea, so much so that you almost consider just giving it all up and spilling to him your dirtiest and darkest secrets.

Reid continues on with his shaky little speech.

"Please, I…I know I'm not of much help, and I know you'd rather I deal with my own problems first, but it's killing me to see you like this."

Reid drops his eyes for a fraction of a moment to his cloth-covered arms, particularly to the crooks of his elbows, and the motion is not lost on you. You feel an ache begin radiating in the pit of your stomach. Here is Spencer, ruffled and out-of-sorts himself, but still trying his best to help you.

"You don't need to concern yourself with me, Spencer," you say gently, "I'm just an old man past my prime."

Spencer drops his gaze, and for a few moments, is silent. He picks at his sleeve and draws his arms closer to his chest.

The seconds tick on by, and the pain in your gut becomes overwhelming. You're almost ready to refocus his attention on the game of chess before him, but just as you think to do so, he opens his mouth (_smooth, not bloody_) again.

"You seem sad," he whispers, and you're kicked in your gut by the force of that statement. It pulls your mind back to that time in Georgia, before Hankel and the Dilaudid, before Frank's return, and-

"I am sad," you admit, because there can be no other way. No other answer.

"Why?"

You can't help but notice that his voice has gone hoarse. Part of your mind flashes back instantly to the dream you had of the Dowd case, of you in Hotch's shoes, the ICU lights flickering around you.

You take a breath. Think about lying to him. But-

"I can't tell you," you say ruefully, "I'm sorry, Reid. But don't you worry about me, alright?"

The game of chess lies forgotten, but Reid's next move startles you so badly that your vision becomes hazy and your thoughts dissolve and melt away like quicksand.

Oh, _God_.

He puts a hand over yours, squeezes, looks into your eyes and whispers, "Please…Jason, please-"

Before either of you realize it, you've somehow moved yourself from your seat and have him pressed against the back of his chair, one of your knees in between his, your other foot on the ground. Your hands, situated upon and gripping both armrests, pin him in.

"Don't you-" you growl, rapidly losing your cool, "This is why-"

With the hazy dreams of the ICU and the cabin laying themselves over your mind like an insidious plaster, you press your knee closer, closer. You _grind_ your knee against his cloth-covered groin, and he _gasps_, the sound broken and uninhibited, and arches his back involuntarily. You encourage him by pulling his waist closer to your knee with one of your hands, and continue your ministrations.

"Gide-"

You shut him up by grabbing for his long and silky hair, pulling his head up, and kissing your name brutally from his lips. His hands, now scrabbling into action, reach up behind your back to try to pull you off, but you resist.

You break the kiss, panting, only to pull back again and lick his slowly reddening lips. You can't stand it, having your fantasy living and breathing in your arms.

"Unh," he groans, arms still flexing, trying to pull you away from him.

But you will have none of it. You press closer, take more.

You, still frantic, in a bit of a frenzy, move your licks and your kisses down to the graceful column of his neck. His skin is thin, here, so thin that you could bite it and draw blood. _Mark him, so that the world would know he was yours, even if you left_.Spencer shies away, once again, and tries almost pitifully to squish himself backwards against the chair.

You are intoxicated. Your knee, although aching, continues to rub and to move against his gradually hardening erection. _God_, you think, _not even Frank could ever ruin this_-

"G-gideon, please-"

It is perhaps fortunate that your mind cleared, for just a moment, when you thought of Frank, because now you can actually _hear _the note of fear in Spencer's voice. You are almost instantaneously doused in horror, as if a cold bucket of water had just dropped itself over your head. This wasn't the Spencer of your dream, that consented to being hit, to being intimate, and that liked it.

This was the real Spencer. The awkward, gifted young man who was your _student_ and your self-selected _protégé_, above all else. This was the agent who looked at you with unquestioning eyes and an unquestioning heart, and thought of you as a father. This was the little boy who couldn't help feeling scared of his own mind, and who still believed that everyone except himself deserved to be saved.

You stop pressing kisses into the skin of his neck, but you aren't capable of pulling yourself away completely. Your knee pauses its movements, but it too remains where it is.

"Spencer," you whisper, "I-"

You breathe out, hot and humid against his neck, and you watch him swallow, eyes trying to focus in on your face.

"This is what's wrong..this- I couldn't tell you _this_."

Something like understanding flickers in his eyes, and somehow you know, that even in his half-traumatized state, he understands.

You can't do this. You have to be a better man. You can't give in to this urge to ruin him, even if you know that part of him won't mind.

You just can't.

You may not be a white knight, but you should play your part until the end.

And with that in mind, with your final decision made, you brush your hand against his cheek just once (_to help you remember the contours of his face, the cutting edges of his cheekbones_), and then you pull away completely.

Reid remains still and unmoving in his chair, even as you pick up your jacket and gather some of your essential belongings into your briefcase.

You give the office a final once-over, but you can't even bring yourself to look at him. You walk to the door unsteadily, almost as if you were a drunkard, and stop right before you reach for the doorknob.

"I'm leaving."

You mean that in more ways than just one. You know that he knows that. He understands.

You chose him, after all. Of course he would.

You turn the doorknob, and he looks up at you, then, but makes no move to try and stop you. You meet his eyes. One last time. One last hurrah.

The door closes behind you as you leave.

You wish that gazes could communicate to him every lost word, feeling, and thought that would never again pass through your lips.

* * *

You can't stand to see Spencer hurt, but the reason why that is so is much less noble than the others on your team may think.

It isn't because you want to protect his innocence or because you want to keep him off of your track record of dead agents. It isn't because you see in him the student and the son you never had.

It is because you would like to be the one to hurt him, to fuck him, to break him and to love him.

Part of you wants to save him from himself and try saving yourself in the process, but-

You're not foolish enough to still believe in fairytales and happy endings.

You are certainly no white knight now, for it is not your armor that shines- it is the barrel of your gun.

You look to your cabin door. Still closed.

But you have found your way out.

* * *

"_Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win."_

_~Stephen King_

* * *

Well, that's that. Any thoughts? Feel free to drop me a review!


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